


Last Night I Heard Everything in Slow Motion

by grand_adventure_running



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Peter doesn't leave, Post Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_adventure_running/pseuds/grand_adventure_running
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The plan is to get Roman to Destiny’s place and crash there for a while, but the police are still looking for blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Night I Heard Everything in Slow Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-season 1; tweaked so that the Rumanceks don’t leave town even after Olivia has died. Also note: I don’t actually know or remember how Destiny’s apartment and/or workplace is set up, so let’s just pretend she operates out of the same space for simplicity’s sake. Title from an Oliver Tank song of the same name.

The plan is to get Roman to Destiny’s place and crash there for a while. Peter, too. Just until the town calms down. About ten minutes ago, he’d been on the phone, telling the Rumanceks about the increasing amount of attention from the police over the past week. Perturbed, Lynda told him to meet them at her house in twenty minutes.

He’s on one of the service roads even though that adds about five minutes’ extra time, hoping that he’d be able to avoid any of the sheriff’s friends. About three quarters of the way there, Roman meets a police car blocking the road. The officer inside sees him and has his CB mike up to his mouth.

“ _Shit_.”

The road is one way, wide enough that two vehicles can squeeze by each other, just big enough to turn around if he’s willing to risk scratching the paint. At this point, he doesn’t care about fucking bullet holes if he can just get out of here. Even if Roman ordered him to leave him alone, he couldn’t do anything about the backup that was undoubtedly on the way. The officer scrambles out of his car and starts shouting. 

Roman dials Lynda’s number and gets as far as “There’s a problem” before another patrol car pulls out in front of him just as he reaches the main road.

“Roman? Where are you?”

There’s no way he’s getting around now. Maybe if he was in a Hummer, he could drive right through the trees, but that’s not happening with this car. 

“The service road where it meets Schumacher Road,” he tells Lynda and hangs up, tosses the cell into the passenger seat. He hasn’t tried to mind-control anyone since—since Olivia died, but he feels stronger since then. He’s pretty sure he can handle them.

The officer that gets out of the car and the one that’s followed him down the road take him by surprise, rushing him as he gets out of the car before he can size them up, before he has a chance to make proper eye contact. They push him to the ground, kicking his feet out from under him, one of them leaning their weight on his back, his arms pulled behind him.

Roman turns his head to the side, blades of grass tickling his lips. “What _the fuck?_ ”

“Listen, Godfrey,” the cop whose badge reads “Davis” says, “We don’t know where the hell your freak of a sister went to, but we sure haven’t forgotten about you.”

“Really? You guys don’t have something fucking better to do?” Roman spits.

 Davis wrenches his arm higher. “Better than beating the shit out of you like I’ve always wanted to do? No, not a chance.”

He kneels his weight onto Roman’s back and there’s a moment when nothing happens and Roman thinks about trying to kick, if he could hit Davis. Then, his hands are moved closer and cold metal encircles each wrist. He hears the snick of handcuffs closing. Davis drags him up onto his knees by his hair and his arm. Roman doesn’t manage to reply because the second cop, whose more familiar and whose uniform identifies him as Beckham, punches him in the face.

“I’ve always hated that face of yours,” Beckham says. “Always running that damn mouth. And now that that bitch is dead and as long as the Sheriff is out looking for his seven pounds, I can mess you up all I want.” He punches Roman again, pain scattering over his cheek, heat blooming in its wake.

He swears at them, tentatively working the muscles in his jaw. He can taste blood in his mouth from where his teeth have cut the inside of his cheek. Swallowing, he picks his head up.

“You really think that this won’t come back to bite you in the ass?  You should just—”

Beckham lifts up one leg and slams the toe of his boot—steel-toed, as Roman figures out—into his stomach. He doubles over, mouth opened wide on a cough as all his breath rushes out. Muscles tightened and dazed from the blow, he can’t suck in a breath without pain sparking through his abdomen. Davis yanks on the collar of his jacket and forces him upright. He hears a chuckle just before Beckham’s boot collides into him again and this time Davis doesn’t let him bend into it.

“Yeah, that’s more like it. No more talking,” Beckham mutters. “I’ve heard enough of your bullshit.”

Roman gasps, can feel a line of saliva on his chin from coughing. Davis grabs a handful of his hair and tilts his head back. “Sto—”

Beckham punches him again and his head snaps to the right. This time, over the shock-numbness of the hit, he can feel the trickle of blood in his nose. The ache settles in seconds later, throbbing and insistent. Davis lets him list to the side and he feels the first drop of blood well at the tip of his nose and then fall, splattering on the grass below him.

Roman stares at it, the splash of too richly colored blood, and tries to calculate how soon Lynda and Peter would show up. He’s honestly not sure how much of a deterrent their presence will be, but he doesn’t doubt the tenacity of the Rumanceks. They better his odds, in any case. 

He tries again to lift his head, make eye contact and call off Beckham, maybe even get him to make Davis release him, but as soon as he opens his mouth he’s dealt another punch. This one is higher on his cheek and he’s pretty sure it’ll result in a swollen eye. While he’s still reeling from that hit, Beckham and Davis trade places. Beckham pulls him to his feet, yanking on his arms and holding him upright when he staggers. A moment passes where Davis seems to consider what kind of damage he wants to inflict and then he goes for a combo: he drives his fist into Roman’s stomach and then, as he bends into the pain, grabs his hair and knees him in the face.  There’s the awful click and scrape of enamel sliding together as his mouth snaps shut. He can taste blood; his tongue and lips are shock-numb from where he’s bitten them and then pain settles there, too, as regular as his heartbeat.

Davis mutters something about getting blood on his pants while Roman struggles to get air back into him, mouth falling open again, wheezing. He feels his knees folding and Beckham lets him fall, landing hard onto a small stone that jabs his left kneecap. Davis punches him again, catching him in the temple. When Roman tips over onto his side, it seems to be the signal for a free-for-all.

He loses track of the hits and the kicks and who gives them. He feels them land on his back and his arms, his chest and his stomach. Davis and Beckham use their boots to roll him over so no side of him is left untouched. The pain that jolts through him fills up his head and bursts from his mouth. Just as things are starting to get hazy, when his breath is coming in desperate gasps and wheezes, he hears a vehicle come close and park. Roman pulls in a breath even though it hurts, pulls in another one. The beating stops.

\--

The look on his mother’s face when she answers her cell is all Peter needs to know. His stomach clenches. Because it’s the police, they aren’t going to be much of an influencing force, so they move as quickly as they can to Norman Godfrey’s current place of residence. They tell him enough to get him in the car and then explain more on the way, the rising aggression in town, their plan. When they arrive on site, they park beside the patrol car that takes up the majority of the road. 

Peter launches out of the car when he sees Roman on the ground between two officers. “Get the fuck away from him!”

The one with the name Beckham on his uniform smirks, nudges Roman with his boot. “Your gypsy boyfriend came to rescue you, ain’t that sweet.”

Peter starts for them, but Lynda reaches for his arm. “Hold on, Peter.”

He clenches his jaw and can’t look away from Roman, even though all he can see is his back. It gnaws at him that he can’t see his face, can’t tell if he’s conscious. He hasn’t spoken or made any kind of movement. Peter stares at the arms bound behind his back by handcuffs, the wrists swollen to an angry red. It stirs something hot and acidic in stomach to know they made him defenseless before they beat him. 

It’s with a vicious sense of pleasure that Peter watches Beckham’s sneer transform into something much less certain when Norman gets out of the car and stands between him and Lynda.

“Uncuff him and get out of here before I decide to press charges,” Norman says, his voice grating out from a place that brooks no argument.

Davis glances at Beckham and then kneels down beside Roman, fishes out the small key from his pocket and removes the handcuffs. Roman makes a low sound when his arms relax back into less strained position. As much as Peter wants to check him out, he doesn’t trust the officers more. He waits for them to move back to their respective cars with Norman dogging them the whole way before he moves, crouching at Roman’s back and leaning over his shoulder.

“Shit,” Peter hisses.

There’s blood smeared and drying all over his mouth and chin.  Peter can’t tell what’s from a nosebleed and what’s from a bitten up mouth. The left side of his face is already starting to swell, having taken the brunt of the beating. Roman’s eyes are closed, the left one on its way to swelling shut.

“Hey, Roman?” Peter slips his hand under Roman’s neck, thumb and palm bracing his jaw and cheek. “Hey, can you hear me?”

His eyelids twitch and blink open. Roman turns his head to see him better, mouth parting on a bloody smile. “My backup.”

Peter shakes his head, incredulous. “Sorry I’m late. Looks like you had a hell of a party without me.”

Roman licks his lips, swallows. “The best.”

Leaning back, Peter can’t see blood anywhere else but on Roman’s face. His shirt has ridden up to the bottom curve of his ribcage and there are marks on his hips and stomach that will bruise into a nasty mottled mess of color.

“Hey, can you breathe okay?  Do you think you could move?”

“Just hurts.”

Roman has sounded nothing but winded, hasn’t choked on anything yet, but Peter can’t see if there’s any damage inside. Lynda crouches down on Roman’s other side and rests her palm on his forehead. Peter moves his hands away.

“Oh, sweet boy, look at you. Who could hurt a face like that?” she says, combing his disheveled hair to one side with her fingers.

Roman’s mouth tugs at the corner. “They didn’t seem to like it.”

“What do they know, all of them…” Lynda trails off into curses that Roman can’t understand, but Peter’s not sure if his attention is all there anyway. She pulls up Roman’s shirt to expose more places flushed red, more places that are darkening, more places that have blood welling beneath. “You need to get checked out at the hospital. I am not messing around with anything internal.”

His breath hitches a little, his fingers twitch in an aborted movement. “Not Dr. Pryce.”

Lynda trades a look with Peter. There’s something more that’s been going on with the Godfreys, something involving Olivia and Dr. Pryce. It doesn’t matter right now that they don’t know what it is—the catastrophe surrounding Letha is enough.

She strokes his hair. “Okay. Okay, we won’t. Peter, let’s get him up.”

They ease Roman upright, slowly, hands placed carefully under his arms, and Peter hangs on to every wince and hiss as they move him. Roman rests against his shoulder and chest while Lynda gets to her feet and calls Norman over. Together, he and Peter lift Roman to his feet, challenging because of his height. Roman makes a sound, sharp and short, and they stop. He’s still leaning back against Peter’s shoulder, Peter’s hands high on Roman’s sides.  Peter can feel his chest expand as he breathes, short huffs between seconds of held breath.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

They help Roman straighten up and steady him until he can get his feet solidly under him. He needs their help to walk to Lynda’s car, breath hitching every time the muscles in his back pull tight—Peter can feel the way he locks up every few steps. Peter gets into the back first and Norman eases Roman down into the seat beside him. Peter clips his seatbelt for him, watches Roman lean his head back and close his eyes, forehead wrinkled up as he concentrates on breathing without hurting his ribs. Peter knows what that feels like and sits close until their shoulders are separated by inches.

In the front, Lynda and Norman are discussing which hospital to take him to. Peter tunes most of it out, the words if not the sound. He can tell that his mom has won from the way the conversation ends abruptly and the car turns toward the nearby Mercy Hospital.

It’s a lot of waiting from there. Roman’s taken away to an exam room and a couple hours pass before a nurse tells them anything. Fortunately, there’s no internal bleeding, but four fractured ribs and muscle contusions along his front and back are nothing to sneeze at. Minor concussion, broken right wrist—Peter’s not sure when they’ll release him, but he’s hoping it’s soon. While they’re stuck in the waiting room—Norman disappeared into the back with the nurse—Lynda pats the leg he’s been shaking.

“Are you all right?”

Peter sighs and leans back in his seat. “There’s too much going on. This town, the Godfreys…”

“I know,” she says, voice low. “Plans keep changing.”

It’s a week and a half now after Letha’s death and he’s only felt hollow since then. Hollow and vaguely sick to his stomach. They would have been out of town days ago if it hadn’t been for Roman’s phone calls, the wide eyes ringed in dark circles, and the strange way he was acting. Peter worries that he’s working himself up to a nervous breakdown and it makes him stop and think about that they—what _he_ —was about to do. Peter knows now that he can’t leave, not when Roman acts like he’s being hunted by something he can’t see and when the police actually are hunting Roman down. He doesn’t know everything that happened on the service road, but he knows it’ll happen again if something doesn’t change.

“We’re still going to lie low at Destiny’s place as soon as he’s out of here.”

His mom’s expression is hesitant. “He’s not ours to take, baby. Roman will be released to his uncle.”

Before he can rationally explain it, Peter feels himself frowning, an all-over body feeling of resistance. “Because his uncle’s going to protect him.”

Lynda nods. “He doesn’t have any family left, Peter. So, yeah. I think he’s going to take care of him.” 

She says it gently, with a core of resigned certainty that spoke to him all throughout his childhood. Why did they always move around, why has his dad never come back, why do people hate them. With just that look and that tone, his mom has answered even the questions he’s never said aloud. Because the moon cycles through the sky, and people don’t change, and there will always be a road beyond the next hill. _That’s what life is, baby_.

There’s an awful sensation all over him, the urge to shake it off makes the words rush to the front of his mouth…and then he stops, feels like his mind has been wiped as clean as the floor tiles. It’s not that he thought Roman was family, which is a word heavy with things that can only be felt and not described, and the thought of extending _family_ to anyone other than his mother makes his blood go cold.

But.

But being _denied_ Roman is wrong, a dull, horrible thing that makes his shoulders shudder, like the sound of an out-of-tune instrument. It’s hard to frame it right with words, more suited to that old saying about feeling it in his balls. It’s the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that’s keeping him turning around to look for Roman.

His mom is still watching him, not saying anything, but he can hear her: _I get it. I get it, baby. It’s because you’ve never had a friend._

Peter leans forward, elbows digging into knees, and interlocks his fingers, digging his thumbs into the corners of his eyes, pressing back all the nebulous things swirling in his head. When Norman returns to the waiting room, Peter’s calmer, more prepared.

Norman rubs the back of his neck. “Listen…” He sighs. “I don’t think it’s safe for Roman to stay in town, like you said, not with…the way things currently are. Pressing charges right now would just add more fuel to the fire. We’re just going to pass this off as anonymous thing. It’s not like they would do a full investigation anyway. You said in the car you were going to take him somewhere?”

“Yeah. It’s safe,” Peter says immediately. “Out of town.”

Norman glances at Lynda, who nods, and then he says, “All right. The nurse told me he can be signed out in a little while.” His mouth twitches. “He’s on painkillers right now, so I don’t think he’ll be too coherent for some time. I don’t mean to impose, but you’re okay with all of this?”

“None of it is ‘okay,’” Peter snaps and he thinks about Shelley carrying the blame alone, wherever she is, and how Roman is now another Godfrey stripped of justice. “But we’re doing it.”

Norman ducks his head in a sharp nod, lips pressing together in an uncomfortable expression. “You’re right. It’s not. But, thank you.”  He steps away from them, towards the reception desk, separating them to either side of the waiting room.

Lynda combs her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, once, twice, and makes a low shushing noise under her breath. Peter relaxes his hands and sits back, feeling her arm along his shoulders.

“This whole town is bad,” she says, so low it’s nearly a whisper. “I’d take you both away if I could.”

The idea blooms and withers in the space of a second, beautiful, tantalizing, and impossible. 

“He wouldn’t leave without Shelley,” Peter says and it’s the final nail in the coffin. “He only agreed to stay with us at Destiny’s because it’d be temporary. He said he’d leave notes for her in case…”

They sit in the relative quiet, breathing and still. It’s another hour before Roman is wheeled out from the back, drowsy-eyed and frowning. In the time that passed, the color of his bruises deepened and the swelling finally stopped. His left eye is swelled shut under the ice pack he’s holding to it, his cheek puffy and gone dark purple. A line of bruising trails over the bridge of his nose and darkens the corner of his other eye. Blood gone now, Peter can see the cut on his swollen lip. He’s not sure if he wants to see the extent of the bruising on rest of Roman’s body.

Roman looks up at him when he walks over, right eye squinting like the room is too bright. “Hey, Peter.”

“Hey. Ready to get the fuck out of here?”

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is quiet and tired. Peter feels the same.

He sits in the back with Roman while they take Norman back to the service road. He’ll drive Roman’s car back to the Godfrey place. Peter finds the bag Roman had packed in the passenger seat and stows it in the rear of their car. He sits up front while they drive toward Destiny’s place so Roman can stretch out and sleep in the back. 

Destiny, when she meets them at the door, widens her eyes at Roman. “I can see why you’d want to get out of town. I’ll go make up my bed. He can sleep there.”

Roman, more alert than he had been on the drive over, looks worried. “Uh, which bed would that be?”

Destiny snorts. “Please, I would ever let you use my work bedroom. I have everything the way I like it in there. And, don’t worry, I’m changing the sheets, so unless you’re morally opposed…? It’s that or the couch and I don’t think you’ll thank me if you sleep on the couch.”

Wincing, Roman shakes his head. “Uh, no. Thank you.”

Destiny waves him off and goes back to her bedroom. Peter drops Roman’s bag on the floor beside the couch and then leans against the back of it, watches Roman walk stiffly into the apartment with his casted arm pressed against his stomach.

Lynda touches his arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

She takes his bag of prescriptions from him and peeks inside. “Are your meds wearing off?”

“No, just…” Roman just barely shakes his head, good eye falling shut momentarily. He looks like he could collapse right there, so Peter’s glad when Destiny returns a few minutes later to the living room.

“All yours,” she says. “I’ll take my workroom and you two can have the living room.” She glances at all of them. “Okay, I’m going to see what I can find in the kitchen. You all look like you haven’t eaten today.”

“Thank you,” Lynda says softly. She turns a gentle look on Roman. “Go rest. I’ll let you know when we’re eating.”

Roman casts a glance at Peter before walking down the hallway to Destiny’s room. Peter follows him a moment later, mumbling, “I’ll go help him,” to his mother. Roman is standing just inside the door, staring at the dark velvets and satins, tapestries and cushions, and a whole bookshelf of charts, crystals, and guides with apprehension.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to sleep here,” he says, gesturing at the canopy over the bed.

Peter leans against the doorjamb. “She keeps a stuffed rabbit in the bedside cabinet.”  When Roman arches his eyebrow at him, Peter says, “Destiny’s not that scary. I mean, yeah, she won’t hesitate to kick your ass, but…she’s giving you her room to use. I wouldn’t snub that, if I were you.”  He moves around Roman and pulls back the duvet. “See, look, she gave you her cotton sheets, the good ones. I think you’re fine.”

Roman gives the room another wide-eyed look. “Okay.”

“C’mon.” Peter pats the mattress. “I’ll get your shoes.”

After Roman eases himself down, casted arm still pressed across his stomach, Peter kneels at his feet and works the laces of his slim-fitting boots loose. He pulls off one and then the other, hand curled around the back of Roman’s foot. 

Thumb against the ball of his ankle, Peter looks up at Roman and meets his gaze. “So, what happened?”

“One officer was parked across the road. I couldn’t get through. But he was on his CB as soon as he saw me and called his buddy to head me off.” Roman swallows. “They weren’t fucking satisfied with chasing Shelley away. They had to beat me up, too.”

Peter looks down at his hands, lets go of Roman’s ankle. “That whole town is fucked.”

But Roman doesn’t say anything in immediate response to that, so Peter glances up at him. It seems to be what he was waiting for, expression gone as solemn as a bruised face and swollen eye can. “Are you leaving?”

He can feel something lurch and settle in his chest. He wasn’t expecting Roman to have any idea that he’d been thinking about that. Roman is too still, like he’s minimizing himself, or just minimizing the potential damage. Peter wonders if that’s something Olivia taught him, directly or indirectly.

“No.”

Roman’s next breath looks easier and he nods his head in response. “Okay.”

Peter checks the urge to caution him, to warn him that nothing is permanent in a Rom’s life. But he doesn’t. Roman already knows.

Nodding his head at Roman’s abdomen, he asks, “How bad is it?”

Roman lifts up the bottom of his shirt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Peter hisses.

The bruises have steadily darkened in the hours since and Peter knows they’ll look even worse tomorrow.  Right now, they’re purple-blue and there’s a huge mottled blotch of them center mass, layer over layer.  A trail of them curls over his ribs and some creep up his chest.  Roman smirks, bitter, as he lets his shirt drop back into place.

“You’re nearly one big bruise,” Peter mumbles.

Roman leans down on his elbow before slowly lowering himself to the mattress, grunting when he lifts his legs. “It doesn’t feel like my back is as bad,” he says, leaning against several pillows that keep him propped up.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, there’s that at least.”

A long but cautious sigh deflates Roman’s chest and his eyes close again. Peter stands up and pulls the duvet over Roman, lets it settle over his waist.

“Do you want to sleep or eat?” Peter asks as he moves toward the door.

“Sleep,” Roman says without opening eyes. “I’ll eat when I wake up.”

“I’ll tell my mom not to wake you up.”

Roman mumbles a “thanks” in response and then Peter pulls the door half-closed behind him. He looks at Roman for a few moments before heading down the hall. Destiny and his mom are in the kitchen and the look Lynda gives him asks for a status report.

Peter leans his elbows on the island. “He wants to sleep. Said he’ll eat later.”

Lynda makes a tsk-ing sound, but she says, “Sure, we’ll save him something.”

From where she’s stirring something sizzling at the stove, Destiny looks over her shoulder at them, one eyebrow raised. “Are you sure leaving that godforsaken town isn’t the best idea?”

He sighs and lets his head hang between his shoulders, stares at this hands. “Of course it’s the best idea, but it’s not the right one.”

Destiny stops stirring and her eyes narrow. Peter feels his shoulders tighten in response, but then Destiny seems to shrug it off and goes back to the stir-fry in her pan. “If you think he’s worth it,” she says in a lower tone.

“He’s my friend—he’s fucking worth it.”

This time Destiny turns around and gives him her full attention. “When I offered the three of you a place to wait until the town cools off, I wasn’t expecting him to show up like this.”

Peter scowls. “What? Having had the shit beaten out of him?”

“ _No_.” Destiny moves to the island and grabs Peter’s wrist. She speaks softly, but firmly and suddenly Peter remembers leaving the bedroom door partially open. “I mean, things are converging. Can’t you feel it? He’s different now, something’s changed.”

Lynda leans toward her, keeping her voice quiet. “Can you tell us?”

Destiny retreats a step and folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t understand everything I read, but especially so with this. It’s big and it’s important and he’s at the heart of it. Things are moving and he’s set something in action. Peter, you _know_ he has—hasn’t he seemed different to you?”

Peter clenches his jaw; he can’t deny it. “Yeah. But he’s also lost three family members. You don’t think he gets a little fucking leeway for that?”

Destiny mutters a Romani curse at him for being stupid. “Of course it’s tragic, but this goes deeper than that.”

“All right, fine. You’re right. What do you want me to do about it?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I would get the hell out of town and stay away, but you don’t want to do that.”

Lynda’s mouth pulls into a frown. “If this is big, it’ll only follow Peter. No, we have to stay and try to figure this out. Roman has even less of an idea than we do. We shouldn’t let him suffer the fallout of whatever happens alone.”

Destiny drops her arms and returns to the stove. “Just be careful.”

\--

Later that night, close to midnight, after Destiny has gone to bed, Peter and Lynda make up the couch and chair to their liking. Light from the streetlamps lands in patches on the floor and the night outside is quieter than usual. Lying on the couch, his mom says her nightly prayers and, after a moment’s silence, whispers an old Romanian lullaby from Peter’s childhood. He joins her on the last line and smiles in the dark.

“Check on Roman in a little while, would you?”

“Sure. ’Night, Mom.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

Fifteen minutes later, she’s asleep, breathing slow and quiet, familiar from all the times they’ve had to sleep in the car or rented a one-room apartment. Peter spins the rings on his fingers until it becomes mindless and then gets up to look at the stove clock: 12:35 a.m. He goes back to the bedroom and, when he looks through the half-open door, it’s too dark inside to see Roman. Peter knows Destiny has a lamp on the dresser by the door and he debates about turning it on. He does, finally, because he figures that Roman has been asleep long enough that he probably won’t be bothered by it. He doesn’t expect to find Roman awake and watching him.

“Jesus fuck.” Peter’s back collides with the doorjamb.

Roman’s mouth jerks into a grin as he fights a laugh.

“Seriously? Goddamn staring at me in the dark?”

“You’re the one who tried sneaking into the room while I was asleep.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Except you’re not.”

“Disappointed?”

“No.” He sits on bed, his thigh snugged up against the line of Roman’s leg. “How long have you been awake?”

Roman shifts his gaze to the door and then back again. “I heard you and Lynda. And Destiny.”

“When she went to bed?”

“No. Earlier.”

Peter feels his stomach sinking, doesn’t know what to say. “How much did you hear?”

But there’s a small lift to Roman’s mouth, not quite a smile. “You’re not leaving.”

It doesn’t answer his question, not exactly, but Peter’s willing to go with it. There’s the urge to shrug off Roman’s reply, give a _hell no, you’re fucking stuck with me_ , but Peter just says, “I told you I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Roman’s good eye is wide and earnest and he doesn’t seem to know which words to say. “But you’re not going to leave me. Peter, everyone else…”  A wince creeps into his expression because he’s breathing harder.

Peter doesn’t think about it when he reaches forward and rests his palm against Roman’s jaw.  He intended on saying something—he’s not quite sure what it was, now—but the thought disappears as they look at one another. Roman’s wide eyes and the straight line of his brow. The plane of his uninjured cheek and his messy, pushed-back hair. It’s all familiar to him, it’s Roman, but the sudden silence in the room makes Roman feel changed to Peter, charged and heavy with something that’s been brought out of background.

So, he leans forward and then there’s the dry press of lips, mouth firm on Roman’s. There’s the drag of soft skin and the hint of stubble under his thumb. Their noses bump and Roman makes a noise at the back of his throat, small but enthusiastic. Peter leans his forehead against Roman’s and separates their mouths because he needs to breathe and he doesn’t understand what they just did.

Roman’s breath is hot against his lips and, after a few seconds, a few breaths, he connects them again, this time firmer. Firmer, until the closed-mouthed rub of them is frictional heat, until Peter feels the snag and slickness of Roman’s bitten lip cracked open again, the tang of iron on the tip of his tongue. Peter’s fingers flex their grip on Roman’s jaw and Roman clenches his hand in Peter’s shirt.

They separate only for short snatches of breath and then they’re kissing again, a final time because Roman’s breathing takes on an edge of pain. Peter’s thumb strokes over Roman’s cheek, touching the edge of the bruise around his eye. When he finally leans away, there’s a smudge of blood on Roman’s lip, which Roman licks away. Peter realizes he likes the look of Roman’s mouth kissed red and that feels surprising, but not startling. 

They’re looking at each other, but it’s changed again, the hush after rain. Roman is still wide-eyed but no longer earnest and his grip on Peter’s shirt goes slack. Peter’s palm lifts away until it’s only his fingertips touching Roman’s cheek and then he rests his hand on his leg. Roman wants to say something because Roman always wants to say something, his open mouth prepared. Peter waits, stays quiet, because he knows Roman will get there eventually and he doesn’t have any idea how to explain what happened.

But Roman doesn’t say anything and, as the seconds pass, Peter feels himself tensing up. He shifts his leg away from Roman’s, puts his feet on the floor.

“Wait,” Roman says as Peter rises from the bed. “Wait, I… Could you get me more meds?”

“Sure.”

It’s not what he was expecting, wonders if the swoop in his stomach is disappointment.

His mom is still asleep on the couch and suddenly everything he’s doing feels like sneaking around, that juvenile gut reaction to doing something you know you shouldn’t be, or feel like you shouldn’t be. Peter’s not sure why it feels like that, why his heart rate kicks up as he thinks about kissing Roman while his mom was out here, sleeping.

Peter leans against the kitchen counter and rolls one of the prescription bottles slowly between his hands, listening to the quiet tapping of the pills colliding against plastic. He understands that, by staying and agreeing to help Roman, he’s doing something against his nature. But it feels right. Destiny told him to be careful and he feels like he’s betrayed that by kissing Roman, but that felt right, too. He doesn’t want to examine it, doesn’t want to break it down into reason because the feel of something has always mattered more. Instinct has seen him through more things than conscience or logic and is, in part, a reason why he’s still alive. It’s all the reassurance he needs right now.

Peter returns to the bedroom with the pills and a glass of water.

Roman thanks him with a murmur and downs the pills. Peter shifts his weight to his other foot. There’s been another change. While he was gone, it seems that Roman’s presence has shrunken and it’s the uncertainty of the situation that makes Roman’s eyes dart around the room and makes him pull in his shoulders, arms held close to his sides. Something Peter hadn’t immediately considered: what Roman thought about it. 

He sits on the bed, but he doesn’t touch, just in case. “So…”

Roman’s eyes make fleeting contact with him. “Could you stay?”

The slightest of hesitations before “stay”—Peter climbs over Roman’s legs and sits on the other side of the bed. “I’ll sleep on top of the covers and we can even put a pillow between us to protect your dignity.”

A quick grin spreads across Roman’s lips. “Shut up, you asshole.”

Peter, laughing, lies down and tucks one hand behind his head. Roman carefully shifts lower and leans back against the pillows, making a small breathy grunt. They lie there, neither one talking, the lamp by the door still on but not bright enough to warrant getting up and turning it off. It doesn’t feel much different, Peter realizes, from before, pre-kiss. They still feel like each other, but with less of something—not tension, but a braced-ness that’s been undone. Something that was held back is now let go. Maybe it should be awkward, maybe it should feel changed, but it doesn’t. Maybe they’ve always been like this and the only difference is that they know, now, but Peter doesn’t want to put anymore thought into it. He’s going by feeling and it feels pretty good just to lie beside Roman at night.

“I don’t want to…spoil anything, the mood or whatever, but—”

“Then don’t,” Peter interrupts. “Shut up and go to sleep. We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Then, quieter, Roman says, “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Peter relaxes into the mattress, shifting around until he’s comfortable. Although he wants to, has the impulse to, he doesn’t say any of the lullaby aloud. That’s not for tonight, but maybe a different one. He can feel the warmth of Roman’s body beside him and, yeah, this is easy. It may be the only part that is, but he’ll take it. Their tomorrows will be harder than this: kissing and resting new wounds and breathing side-by-side.


End file.
